


Heavenly Upgrades

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, Other, Roman baths, Sort Of, Tattoos, hint of pine, lots of atmosphere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: Crowley's not been in Rome long, but a chance running into the angel has them doing as the Romans do.It turns out to be a bit more of a revelation than Crowley was expecting.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 65





	Heavenly Upgrades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaspianTheGeek (DemonicGeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicGeek/gifts).



> A casual thought on twitter and I had my arm twisted (ie: Caspian asked very nicely) to write it up. Once the idea took hold I didn't stand a chance so at the detriment to my WIP pile, have some... whatever this is.

Crowley is utterly mesmerised every time he sees it. It’s changed a bit, over the years, the detail coming in and out depending on the local customs and fashions (Aziraphale is always behind, he’s never been very good at letting things go). But it’s always been fundamentally the same as when Crowley first saw it, all those millennia ago. 

Now, of course, he can trail fingertips over it, trace the lines to his heart’s content (as if a creature like him could ever have his fill). But back then? He can still vividly remember the first time he saw it. Still feel the way it knocked his wholly unnecessary breath right out of his skinny chest (a concept he’d never understood until that moment), just as it has every time since. 

And Aziraphale knows this, the bastard. 

* * *

**41AD**

It’s early January. The year is coming to an end, and Crowley is fed up. Eight years ago he stood and watched Her sacrifice Her child for these humans, had to watch Her forgive all their sins (of which there are many) while he is deemed unforgivable. The hope with which Aziraphale asked him if he was still a demon stings a bit, but he can’t blame the feathery fool, he’s just thinking what he’s told to think. As much as he struggles to do so at times. 

But the fact is it’s cold, Crowley has no idea where he’s going to spend the night, and he’s just been up at Caligula’s palace and seen a level of depravity that is seldom seen outside of the pits. When Gaius gets down there (and it will be sooner than Crowley realises) they’re going to have a hard time finding something he’ll actually see as punishment. 

So here he is, wearing a silver Laurel wreath crown that the emperor forced upon him, on top of something that he cobbled together with very little care that he’s fairly sure isn’t right, and getting plenty of odd looks. More odd than normal, anyway. 

But he was in a rush. Dragged out of his years of wandering with very little aim or purpose, and into the palace as a slave at Hell’s request. He quickly talked his way into the emperor’s chambers and he should have wondered why it was so easy, really, but he just wanted to get the job done and get back to his grief-stricken solitude. 

It has been eight years and it still hurts. 

He’s stumbled his way into a tavern afterwards because after all he’s just seen, he needs a drink. But then there was an angel, and with him, a salvation. Of sorts. 

So now they’re headed to the baths, apparently a pre-oyster-dinner necessity in these parts, and Crowley has no idea what to expect. 

Aziraphale knows the owner (of course he does) and they are waved in. Not before the owner takes a good look at the snake on Crowley’s face, though. Curious eyes alight on the stupid silver crown and turn to Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow and a suggestion. The angel either doesn’t see it or ignores it, but Crowley can’t help wondering when they find themselves in a private area that looks suspiciously built for two. 

“You’ll like this, Crowley. It’s just the thing for a cold day.” Aziraphale says and Crowley has to agree. The pale stone of the walls arches above them into an ornate plastered ceiling, covered with frescoes. It takes Crowley a moment to spot that the figures on the wall are engaged in rather more licentious activities than he saw at first glance, but if Aziraphale knows he pays them no notice.

Crowley begins to wonder just what sort of temptation the angel has in mind. 

In the room next door there’s a window on the back wall, up high to preserve privacy, and the sun is streaming through it, leaving trails in the steam that coils up from the pool below it. It’s a small window, so the room isn’t too bright, making it feel intimate, but that’s probably the point, Crowley thinks. 

Aziraphale is taking his clothes off, and Crowley realises with a jolt that he should be doing the same. He turns away, facing the wall and trying to to look  _ too _ hard at the… well it appears there is still something new to learn on this ball of rock after all. 

The mosaic on the floor turns out to be even worse and Crowley throws his clothes off in a hurry, only getting tangled in the stupid length of cloth once, before picking up the towel that’s been placed nearby. After a moment’s thought, he takes off the little smoked glass spectacles he had made, setting them down with the ridiculous silver wreath. This sort of room was not made for disturbances. By the time he turns back, Aziraphale has his towel around his shoulders, and is walking towards the little pool that’s just through the archway. He’s walking into the rays of sunlight that stream into the room and Crowley follows. He can’t look away, feet stopping under the arch. Paused on the cusp of dark and light. The angel’s hair is doing that glowing thing again, fuck, all of him is doing that glowing thing, and Crowley hasn’t seen him look this beautiful since the wall. 

That is, until Aziraphale glances back at him where he’s stood just gawping like a prat, gives him a small smile before turning away, and lets the towel slip from his shoulders. 

Crowley can’t remember being in Her presence, but he thinks it might have felt a little like this. 

The afternoon sunlight is a warm, golden colour. It reaches in through the window to caress pale shoulders, trickles through the moisture laden air to land with the gentlest touch on arms that are built to guard. It’s almost, but not quite, a halo. Glowing gently around the edges where Aziraphale is bathed in celestial light, a demon standing in his shadow.

The towel slithers down the broad expanse of the angel’s back and Crowley can see not the smooth, unblemished skin he has always thought was there, but an intricate pattern of delicate black lines that leave an impression of gold as the flesh shifts. It’s so unexpected that Crowley feels himself falling a little bit more and has to lean on the archway for support. He doesn’t notice the way all his breath is stolen from him.

It’s wings. Huge, arching wings. Taking up the entirety of the angel’s back. Tattooed on with the faintest of marks, the wings are flanking a narrow, vertical shape that traces the path of Aziraphale’s human spine. 

But Crowley knows that shape. It’s Aziraphale’s sword, nestled between his shoulder blades, not so lost, after all. 

The golden sunlight is streaming down on the angel with his towel dangling from arms spread open beside his hips, his wings and sword on display, and Crowley is in awe. He’s also head over tail in love and vaguely wondering if he’s in a lot of trouble, but right now he cannot tear his eyes away from the truly heavenly creature in front of him. Can’t even blink. For all his hellfire beginnings it is Aziraphale that is the flame to which Crowley finds himself transfixed.

Aziraphale is looking down to the side, at the little stool to his right where Crowley suspects the towel will end up and he isn’t saying anything. The sunlight catches every eyelash, picking them out in gold against the divine profile of his face, and he is silent. Aziraphale lets the towel fall away into his right hand, and Crowley still hasn’t remembered to breathe. Still hasn’t worked out how to expand his narrow chest, pull down that diaphragm and drag the humid air deep into the cavity there. He might suffocate because he cannot take his eyes away from the ornate illustration of feathers that spill down from an angel’s shoulder blades in a truly breathtaking homage to the wings that he knows are but a thought away. 

They go almost down to the angel’s knees. 

Bloody hell. No wonder he keeps having to tell people not to be afraid. If Crowley were human he would think he was having a vision from God. Because he’s not human, he knows that he is, and he’d thank Her, but they’re not really talking right now. 

“The water is heated to just the right temperature. It’s quite a marvel of engineering.” Aziraphale says, his words barely above a whisper but somehow Crowley can hear it over the sound of voices raised in exalting song that may or may not be all in his head. 

Aziraphale drops the towel onto the stool, and takes a step into the water, twisting his body to look back at Crowley. 

In a couple of millennia they’ll have a term for the full system crash that takes place in Crowley’s brain as Aziraphale’s crystalline blue eyes meet his yellow and marred ones, but for the moment all he can do is stare in wide-eyed wonder as the tattoo that covers Aziraphale’s back seems to flow under his skin, the individual feathers of his wings moving almost imperceptibly over one another as they would if they were solid. Aziraphale notices him staring. He frowns for a moment, his shoulders hunching as the uncertainty creeps in. 

Crowley would swear to whoever's listening that the wings have just expanded. Anyone else would have missed it, the change lost in the shifting of the angel’s skin as he turns away again, but Crowley’s eyes are those of a snake and as such, very good at spotting movement. 

Then Aziraphale steps further into the water, past the beams of sunlight and into the shadows beyond. Crowley blinks, and it’s only when no sound leaves his moving lips does he realise that he hasn’t any air in his superfluous lungs. 

That explains the light-headed, dizzy feeling, right?

A full breath in, and he still doesn’t really know what to say, though. He has so many questions that he has no idea where to start. 

“The whole point of a bath house is to bathe, Crowley.” Aziraphale says from the shadows at the other end of the pool. Crowley can barely see him through the veil of steam and sunlight. These architects are getting really quite clever, aren’t they? 

Crowley puts his towel on the stool to the left. He’s completely bare now, completely exposed, and Aziraphale will be able to see everything from his skinny, freckled shoulders to the knobbly bits on his feet. He knows he’s a walking sack of vaguely human bones held together with stubbornness and spite, but he’s always held out hope that perhaps the angel might look at him one day the way some of the humans do. 

The sunlight spares him from what he is sure will be disappointment. 

He dips a toe into the water. It’s pleasantly warm and soon he’s gliding down the steps and sending waves across the surface. One more step forward, and he breaks through the barrier of sunlight to see Aziraphale resting on the opposite wall, arms hooked over the edge and body suspended. Down here his blue eyes are dark, the light levels insufficient to give them their cerulean hue. There’s a curve to his rosy lips, a suggestion that the feeling he gets from these waters is bliss. It’s not a feeling Crowley knows, yet. 

The heat is seeping in, finally making Crowley’s shoulders droop, his toes uncurl. He can feel the tension washing away with every lap of the warm water against his skin. Crowley joins Aziraphale on the back wall, sliding in to his place on the left, arms draped wide over the edge so he can hang from them. 

No. Not like this. He can’t put himself in this crucifix position and call it rest. Not yet. He draws his arms in, flips himself over so his chest is against the wall and drops his head onto his crossed arms. From here he can see the top of the nearest wing on Aziraphale’s shoulder. His hands itch to touch him. He wants to run his fingers along that iridescent line, see if the softness of the feathers is translated to the skin there. It will be a very long time before he has the answer to that (it’s yes, of course it’s yes), so for now he has to suffice with what he can see. 

“Did it hurt?” He asks, finally. He’s curious by design, he has to know. 

“Did what hurt?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head towards him with a look on his face that even now Crowley recognises as waiting for the punchline.

“No, the wings. The tattoo. It’s huge. Did it hurt?” Crowley tries again, the fingers poking out by his elbow wiggling vaguely towards Aziraphale’s back. The thought of the angel in pain makes Crowley want to break things, but he wants to know. Wants to know why he did it, and, why the sword? 

Aziraphale frowns again for a moment, eyes searching for the point he’s missed. He seems to find it on Crowley’s bare shoulder. 

“Oh! Oh that. No, it’s not actually a tattoo, that’s just the closest this human corporation can approximate. Must have been… oh… just after the flood? I was called back to head office, and when I got there Gabriel was beaming.” Crowley grunts his displeasure at that. “He said they had an upgrade for my corporation, a way for me to always have the sword handy without having to carry it. I wasn’t really given an option.” 

“How does some shiny ink help you keep track of a sword you haven’t seen since literally the birth of civilisation?” Crowley asks. This doesn’t make much sense. 

“Ah, again, not ink. It is, in fact, the sword itself in potentia. It is a suggestion of the sword that shows up on this plane as a tattoo.” 

“And the wings?” Crowley asks. 

“The same. The idea of the sword is linked to the idea of my wings, so they both show up.”

“‘S that why they move?” Aziraphale smiles at that. 

“I should have guessed you’d spot that. Not that I’ve really let many others see it.” He says, gazing at Crowley with something that could easily be fondness. 

“You ever had them out again?” Crowley asks, letting his legs droop as his mood is buoyed up by more than the water. Crowley doesn’t float. Too many bones, or something, he thinks. Too close to being able to walk on water for his blackened soul, so his knees drag towards the bottom.

“I do sometimes. Here. That’s why I always take the private bath. That, and anyone that sees my back thinks I’m some sort of gladiator.” Aziraphale grumbles. 

Crowley snorts out a laugh at that. Aziraphale would be a terrible gladiator. Not because he couldn’t fight, no. He’d win every match, whether he wanted to or not, subduing his opponent swiftly and cleanly. The problem was he would never be able to kill if the verdict came back ‘no mercy’. He’d never give the mob the blood and gore they clamour for. As much as he was created to fight, he was also created to protect, and, as an angel, have mercy. 

“How’s it work then?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale sighs. 

Pulling his feet back underneath him, he strides forward, water swirling and eddying in his wake, the ripples lapping at Crowley’s torso as he twists to watch the angel go. Aziraphale steps back out onto the side of the pool, water puddling around his feet on the tiles. Crowley tracks the movement of all the droplets left behind, maps their race to rejoin the others as they form rivulets down the angel’s back. He can’t help but appreciate the way they wander lazily over the pleasing expanse of his buttocks, before striking off down a thigh and around a calf on their way to the floor. Aziraphale was always broad, always a reassuringly solid presence on this Earth, but now Crowley can see why. He can see the rounded shape that comes from generous muscles, his corporation’s attempt to translate the raw power of a cherubim into a human(ish) form. He can see the way that Aziraphale has tried to soften the effect, adding a layer of fat to disguise the strength that lies there, tried to make his form appear less intimidating. But Crowley isn’t fooled. He knows exactly what he is looking at. 

Is the water getting warmer? 

Aziraphale’s in that patch of sunlight again, the not-ink shining golden. It seems to glow for a moment, as Aziraphale reaches his right hand up and over the back of his shoulder, his back twisting strangely, as if his spine is held stiff by the blade that runs parallel down it. As his fingers brush the grip of the sword it takes form, colour pouring into it from the angel’s touch. The transformation expands, extending to the white of the feathers as Aziraphale’s wings seem to peel away from his skin and burst out from his back as he draws them both forth. They’re much, much bigger than the tattoo.

It happens so fast that Crowley might have missed it if he blinked regularly. As it is he thinks that even with his eyes closed he would still see the wings. The sunlight is falling on them and they are blindingly white, the purity of an angel shining through in this most sordid of locations. The wings brush the edges of the room as he stretches them wide and they must be heavy, but the angel shows no sign of noticing the extra weight. He stands perfectly still, facing the door (and the East), with the military precision of a body under complete control. Aziraphale holds the sword out low and to his right, a peaceful gesture as he bares his most vulnerable parts to a demon he cannot even see, and there’s no word in any language anywhere for what Crowley is feeling right now. How could a human possibly comprehend what it is for a demon to love a being so divine? 

In that moment Crowley knows with a certainty he hasn't felt since he took this fallen form, that he will follow this angel anywhere. 

* * *

**Now**

‘Anywhere’ is currently a bookshop in Soho, and the small living space above it. It is a bed with expensive charcoal coloured sheets that wasn’t there not that long ago. Crowley has discovered that even in sleep he follows his angel, waking up pressed into his side with at least one limb thrown around him. More often it’s all of them. Occasionally it's none, in favour of a body more suited to coiling. Aziraphale never complains.

Crowley is overjoyed to find out that the angel likes to feel the brush of the cotton against his naked skin and many a lazy morning is spent with him tracing the path of those lines that adorn Aziraphale’s back. Crowley will run his fingers through downy white feathers every chance he gets, but it turns out that the angel seems to enjoy having these wings mapped out by reverent fingertips as well. 

To Crowley’s delight, Aziraphale likes to return the favour too, his neatly manicured fingers sliding along the length of Crowley’s serpentine adornment. 

When he can catch the bloody thing, that is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Caligula was killed at the end of January in 41AD so they must have been there earlier. The Romans also started their year in March, so to hedge my bets as to which year was the right year, I've set this earlier in January. 
> 
> Tattoos in Roman times were something used to mark slaves, mercenaries and gladiators, apparently, which no doubt caused Crowley some problems. His outfit is also a mess, a fact I got from this insightful tumblr post: <https://wisteria-lodge.tumblr.com/post/186061778853/crowleys-roman-look-is-very-strange>
> 
> I've taken some creative licence with the bath house, otherwise we'd be here all bloody day.
> 
> I'm thinking another chapter to explain Crowley's tattoo, but I need some time to ponder it.
> 
> As usual, any tags suggestions gratefully received.


End file.
